The Letter
by Rosa Tenebrum
Summary: A year after the War of the Lance, Raistlin receives a letter from Caramon.


**A/N:****  
**  
The idea for this story came from _Time of the Twins_ by Weis and Hickman, where Tika speaks about a letter that Caramon had sent for Raistlin. The book never said that Raistlin didn't read the letter, only that it returned unopened. So, let's say he did read it.

The embedded Kitiara quote is from the _Soulforge,_ pg. 36.

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"I saw the letter. It was - it tore my heart. Not a word of blame or reproach. It was filled with love."  
- Tika, _Time of the Twins_ -

**THE LETTER****  
**

_"Shalafi?"__  
_  
Dalamar Argent's quick, nervous knock at his master's study door was followed by a complete silence.

The dark elf stood still for some moments in a state of insecurity. Then he tried again in a louder tone and, while waiting for an answer, rummaged in his bag and pulled out a stack of mail he had collected for his master on his trip to town. He went through it half-heartedly, hoping but not really expecting to find something of interest. In the three weeks he'd now spent in the archmage's household, Dalamar had not once seen anything suspicious among his master's mail - at least not anything that would interest Them.

To Dalamar's disappointment, this day seemed to be no exception. In his hands there was nothing but boring regular mail that was delivered to every single household in Palanthas: a couple of wrinkled pamphlets, a slightly desperate advertisement for a new inn ("Free bucket for every customer!"), a list of services needed and offered, and - Dalamar's heart jumped and he felt a sudden thrill of excitement - on the bottom of a pile, a little, mysterious envelope.

Tucking the rest of the mail under his arm, Dalamar greedily proceeded to study the envelope. It was plain and bore no marks of identification; it was sealed with ordinary-looking candle wax that anyone could purchase. It was addressed to Raistlin Majere in black ink in a somewhat childish hand that was not familiar to Dalamar. Frowning, the dark elf turned the envelope over and scanned it with his sharp eyes. He brought the envelope to his nose and sniffed it. He held it up to the light pouring down from a narrow window behind him, but didn't manage to see through. Could this be something Par-Salian wanted? _Anything out of the ordinary_, the old wizard had said. _Judge for yourself._

Suddenly becoming aware of the thick silence again, Dalamar again knocked at the door more demandingly and listened, every sense alert - nothing. He nodded his head contently and smiled. Here, certainly, was the opportunity he had waited for since the day of his arrival; perhaps it would not come again for a long time. He was just about to put the envelope in his robe pocket and reach for the doorknob, excited about his progress, when the irritated answer finally came.

"What now?"

Dalamar gave a guilty start. In panic, his thoughts suddenly scattered, he put the envelope back in its place with the other mail and then gently pushed at the door that opened with a hollow creak. He cleared his dry throat and poked his head around the door; immediately his eyes fell on the figure that was sitting behind the study table with an open tome in front of him.  
_  
__"Sh-shalafi?"_ Dalamar managed to stammer, momentarily rendered speechless by the disturbing sight of his master. The archmage looked like a ghost whose life had been drained out of him as well by relentless study as by lack of food and sleep. He sat motionless, staring straight at Dalamar with his strange, haunted eyes, his face devoid of any expression. The gleam of the fireplace danced on his white hair and accentuated the feverish burn of his cheeks. Unwontedly, he was unrobed and wearing a casual shirt with sleeves rolled up, apparently for the heat. He didn't say anything, but merely tilted his head to the right and raised an eyebrow in a questioning manner.

Dalamar swallowed. "I only wanted you to know, _Shalafi_," he half-whispered, "that I went to town, as you ordered, and collected your mail from Mrs Trundle."

The archmage did not remove his gaze from him. "Ah, that's right," he uttered shortly, in a voice just as blank as his stare. Then, "You didn't steal any of it, did you?"

It was a little wonder that Dalamar didn't collapse on the floor, seeing how all the bones in his body seemed to turn to water at the unexpected question. Stricken with terror, he stared helplessly at his _shalafi_, furiously trying to decide what to do or say next in order to save his miserable life. In a feeble attempt to appear relaxed, he let out a short laughter - except it didn't come out right at all. It was a nervous, mirthless sound, and upon hearing it, a horrible, cold smile crept to his master's thin lips. Then he too laughed shortly and without mirth. After intently staring at his apprentice for some moments, he lowered his eyes back to the book and said indifferently with a shrug, "Put it on the table."

Relief washing over him, Dalamar stepped into the room on feet that hardly carried him and strolled toward the massive study table, which was old and piled high with manuscripts, as were the shelves on the walls. As quickly and discreetly as possible, in order not to draw Raistlin's attention to himself anew, he put the stack of mail down on the table and doing so sent his Master a wary sideways look. The mage seemed once more to be deeply absorbed in what he was doing; he was wearing a concentrated scowl and as usual ignored Dalamar's presence without so much as a glance.

Dalamar began to say something formal, but then decided it was wiser to stay quiet. Too many times, out of politeness, had he made the mistake of posing a perfectly reasonable, casual question, only to receive an answer with a bad-tempered edge to it that begged no further questions ("How are you today, _Shalafi_?" - "Ill"). Dalamar had soon come to understand that all the interaction between them was to be limited to professional moments only and so, once more feeling anything but welcome, he now turned around and started towards the door.

Raistlin's toneless voice stopped him on his tracks immediately. "So, apprentice - where else did you go?"

Dalamar froze to the spot. Maintaining his calm only by deliberate effort, he spent a few moments in making his face a blank mask and then reluctantly turned back to his master in order to answer ("You will look at me when you're talking to me" - oh, he remembered!) "Please, _Shalafi_?" he said with elaborate casualness, raising his eyes. There was a sudden hint of fear in his voice that, much to his dismay, undoubtedly was as audible to his master as it was to him. With an inward shiver, Dalamar folded his hands in his robe sleeves and waited patiently.

Not even looking up from his writing, Raistlin smiled inwardly at the dark elf's discomfort. He enjoyed keeping his new apprentice constantly on the edge and profoundly insecure as to whether his real status - a despicable spy working for the Conclave of Wizards - was known to him or not. He went on writing, ignoring the dark elf. After a while he stopped and put his quill down very slowly, deliberately taking a long time to answer. Then he looked up at his apprentice, squinting his eyes in a suggestive fashion. "You took quite some time collecting a mail. You got me thinking, maybe one of the town brothels got the best of you."

Dalamar's eyes were wide and startled. His pale face went from white to scarlet. "But... But, _Shalafi_, I wouldn't -"

Raistlin overrode his intention to speak. "No need to get defensive, apprentice," he said with a condescending smile. "What you do with your precious time is no one else's concern."

The dark elf muttered something in answer, but Raistlin wasn't listening anymore, engaged as he was in arranging the objects on his study table. Lost in his own thoughts, he piled his tomes and shut the cork of the ink bottle, but, as his eyes happened to fall upon the stack of mail on the table, his movement stopped in mid action - on top of the pile there was a little, yellowish envelope addressed to him in a familiar handwriting. Paralyzed and speechless, completely forgetting where and with whom he was, Raistlin stared at the envelope as if it might suddenly explode.

The voice of his apprentice recalled him to himself. "_Shalafi_," the dark elf was inquiring with a touch of insecurity, "is there something the matter?"

Unexpectedly overcome with emotion, Raistlin pulled himself away from his train of thought to answer. He blinked a few times and slowly lifted his gaze to the man. "Did I say there was?" he asked, frowning absent-mindedly.

Dalamar stared back at him, his eyes confirming the fear in his voice. "No, _Shalafi. _It's just that, I only thought -"

"Enough." Raistlin silenced his apprentice with an impatient gesture of his hand. Then, at length recovering from his surprise, striving not to show outside the storm of emotions that had suddenly risen in his chest, he again opened the book he had put away only a moment ago and commanded his heart to calm itself.

The dark elf stood where he was, apparently surprised into immobility by the unexpected, rare crack in his Master's countenance. Raistlin looked up at him irritably. "Anything else, apprentice?" he asked, icily, with a smile that was anything but friendly.

"N-no, _Shalafi_. Nothing."

"Well, then, shall I walk you to the door, or can you perhaps find the way out all on your own? It is not a dangerous route, I assure you, and, if you leave now, it shouldn't take you too long."

His cheeks growing violently red once more, Dalamar took a slight, humble bow. "I'll find my way, _Shalafi_," he said, very quietly. Avoiding eye contact, he turned around stiffly and moved silently toward the door. His hand was on the knob when Raistlin spoke.

"One more thing, apprentice," Raistlin called softly and watched the dark elf pause in the doorway. "You will not disturb me further tonight. Is that clear?"

Turning slowly back to face him, Dalamar muttered words of agreement with a nod of the head.

"Excellent, apprentice. Now, dismiss."

Raistlin watched the dark elf out of the room with cold, despising eyes. The man pulled the door close behind him with such reverent discretion that he with difficulty repressed his inclination to laugh. What a fool! It was a ridiculous attempt to convey the impression of an obedient apprentice showing utter respect to his master's wish of not being disturbed - ridiculous, because Raistlin well knew the elf stayed around like the plague, loitering in the hallway and pressing his ear against the door, furiously hoping to find something heinous to report to his darling Par-Salian. Once Raistlin had unexpectedly opened the door on him, just for the amusement of listening to his preposterous attempts at giving a plausible explanation for his sneaking.

Raistlin chuckled at the memory of the man's horrified face. Sometimes - but not very often, mind you - he almost felt sorry for the dark elf whom he knew had volunteered for his dangerous assignment in honest hope of learning from him. What the poor fool did not know, however, was that he'd never share the knowledge he'd taken years after painstaking years to collect. No. He only gave his apprentice tiny bits of information, something but not everything; just enough to keep the dark elf under the blessed impression that he had taken him under his wing for the talent he showed, completely unaware of his connections with the cursed Conclave. The whole charade was a bit vexing, but at least Raistlin now knew, and not completely without satisfaction, that the great Par-Salian was so afraid of him that he had to resort to a childish, predictable game of cat and mouse. Dreary as it was, he would play along and not reveal his cards before time was nigh. And when it would be, the spy and his superiors would know exactly what it meant to double-cross the Master of Past and Present.

The envelope on the table interrupted Raistlin's dark meditations. Sighing and leaning back in his chair, he pensively placed the tips of his fingers together and in this attitude remained motionless for some moments, staring at the little rectangle that silently demanded to be opened.

It was a highly unwelcome and unexpected reminder of the world outside his seclusive existence, and it brought about feelings Raistlin thought he'd managed to bury forever after a long and exhausting struggle. But apparently those feelings hadn't been buried very deep, after all, because he now found the lonely sight of his twin's handwriting hurt him like a dagger through his heart.

Angry at Caramon for making him remember, Raistlin determinedly pushed his brother's letter all the way to the far corner of the table. He would send it back. No doubt about it. With this decision in mind Raistlin returned to his book, fully intending to lose himself in work again.

It soon proved impossible to concentrate on the tome, however; repeatedly Raistlin found his eyes going back to the pleading silence of the abandoned envelope. Blast! His mind was supposed to be working on intricate spells, but instead it kept going back to his anything but intricate twin. Why would the fool write to him now? Had something happened? What if he read the letter, just in case? It might be something important, something extremely important.

Biting his lip very much annoyed, Raistlin slammed shut the dusty tome and with a quick jerk snatched the envelope before he had time to change his mind. He gave up making feeble excuses - it didn't matter if something extremely important had happened or not. Rather reluctantly he admitted to himself that the only reason he chose to read the letter was that he was actually interested in what the great idiot had to say.

There was no need for Caramon to know it, though. After a while of pondering, Raistlin opened one of the table drawers, searched around and finally extracted a thin-bladed paper knife. He placed the envelope face down on the table and, holding his breath, slowly slid the silvery blade under the edge of the red wax seal that was holding down the flap. Careful not to damage the seal irrevocably, Raistlin turned the blade inch by inch.

The seal came loose unharmed, allowing Raistlin to draw the contents out as if the enevelope had never been touched. His heart pounding nervously in his chest, Raistlin unfolded the letter and for some moments stared gloomily at the black web of letters, unable and afraid to start. Then, after a long moment, he took a deep, calming breath and, bracing his mind against any further emotional tides, began reading the familiar handwriting that leaned as strongly to the left as his own did to the right.

_Solace, 18 Corij_

_My beloved brother._

_It's been almost a year now since you left, so I really think it's time for you to pack your belongings and come home. Your room is waiting for you. I built it with my own hands. You'll love it. All you need to do is show up and move in and that's it._

Not even trying to temper the unbidden anger that shot through him at reading his brother's words, Raistlin came close to crushing the letter into a ball and throwing it in the fire. It certainly did not start too well - he was steaming with anger before getting no further than the first lines. That blubbering, sentimental idiot! Come home? Had he ever even once said he considered Solace home? That sleepy, boring town, whose habitants' dreams and goals were no bigger than their brains? And a room built for him - what kind of nonsense was that? Of course. He should have guessed. Raistlin's lips curved into a bitter smile. When did Caramon ever do anything in his sorry life except for him?

He closed his eyes. _Alright, Raistlin,_ he ordered himself angrily_, you're not going to read this rubbish and waste any more of your time on his mindless ramblings._ But, despite this grim resolution, he did not succeed in putting the letter away. The image of his twin looking at him with hurt eyes rose to his mind against his will. His heart somewhat thawed by the vision, Raistlin gave a disgusted sigh, leaned back, propped his feet on the table and continued reading.

_I haven't said anything to Tika regarding this plan, but I'm sure she'll understand. We're married now, me and her._

Raistlin stopped. He noticed his anger started to wane, mellowed by a new, weird emotion. _Married_. Caramon was _married_. The thought was strange, upsetting even. Frankly, he'd never thought either of them would marry. The truth was - as hard as it was to admit or let alone comprehend - that he did not want to see Caramon married. In spite of his twin's random girls, Raistlin had always considered Caramon's true everlasting place to be where it had been since the very beginning: by his side. He tried but couldn't imagine Caramon sharing his everyday life with the barmaid, Tika Waylan. Besides, Raistlin thought worriedly, did she even know how to properly take care of him?

Suddenly noticing the course his own thoughts had taken, Raistlin clenched his fist in anger. What did he care? Caramon was a grown man. He knew perfectly well how to take care of himself. Just like he himself did. Married - fine. Raistlin shrugged. They were welcome to each other, those two slow-witted dolts. Besides, wasn't this what he had always wanted, for them both to have their own lives, finally, after twenty-five long years of unbroken, jading co-existence? Trying to push back the nagging doubt but not completely succeeding, Raistlin carried on.

_You know, Raist, things haven't been that great for me lately._

_I sometimes notice I don't want to go home after a day, because it somehow feels so empty there, even though I do know Tika's waiting for me. It frightens me. From time to time I find myself pondering if it was even right to marry her. It just happened, I guess. She was so eager and excited that I couldn't say no. And why should I have? She treats me so gently, far better than I deserve._

Found himself pondering, that big idiot? Raistlin disregarded his brother's attempts at philosophy with a bored roll of his eyes. But there was also something about his brother's words that bothered him deeply, a secret meaning that to him was as plain as day even though Caramon did not express it directly.

Swallowing the sudden huskiness in his throat, Raistlin turned the letter in his slender hands and brought it near the softly glowing lamp for a better view. Oddly enough, the fine paper seemed wrinkled at random spots as though it had got wet from here and there and then dried up again. The ink was also smudged in places in a way that... Raistlin's eyes widened in surprise. Had the mouse brain been crying while writing? Unbelievable! Raistlin let out a nervous snort. He took a closer look and noticed there were also a couple of pinkish stains that might have been wine dark before wiped out with a sleeve or the like. Raistlin frowned. Tears and wine? It was not a good combination.

All of a sudden the image of his strong, happy, jovial twin sitting at the table in the lonely company of a bottle of wine, writing to him with tears in his eyes was too much. The looks of despise that had danced across Raistlin's face throughout his reading gradually died out and turned into a blank expression of anxiety. Raistlin knew his brother was not a man of letters. He knew there had been pages thrown away and new ones started. Caramon's hand was used to holding a sword, not a quill. The writing had been hard for him, and yet he had done it in a fit of whatever despair and longing. A curious feeling shook Raistlin - an aching twist rose in his chest.

Shaken by the emotion, Raistlin lowered the letter on the table and stood up - too quickly, for a violent wave of dizziness rose in his head, and he had to grab the back of his chair to steady himself. How long had it been since he'd last eaten? He staggered dizzily to the window and stared out over the roofs and streets of Palanthas on which the red evening sun was silently setting. His own image reflected in the window glass caught his attention, and for a moment he was held by his own gaze; a pair of large, penetrating eyes that were watching him from the outside.

_Things haven't been that great for me lately...  
_  
He knew what Caramon meant. But he couldn't bring himself to embrace the shaming, bitter knowledge.

Led by instinct rather than reason, Raistlin raised his hand and pressed his fingertips against those of his image hovering on the other side of the window. Reluctantly letting go of his well-guarded resistance, he let the forbidden knowledge to wash over his heart until every corner of his body became aware of the longing. He pressed his forehead wearily against the cool glass - _I miss him too_ - driven by a strange burning need to connect with the image outside. _His_ _annoying questions, the way he always mixes things up and doesn't understand what is going on. I miss all of it, Gods help me.  
_  
In deep frustration, Raistlin closed his eyes and by staying absolutely still tried to keep the hurt from spreading inside him.

It came as no surprise to him that Caramon had had problems with their sudden separation after the war. The real surprise were his own problems that Raistlin had been certain would not appear. Gloomily Raistlin once again called to mind what their sister had said over and over in their childhood: _You two have to get used to being separated_. Oh, how he had always hated those fatalistic words and considered there was nothing about it to get used to. But, during the year he had now spent alone in the tower, Raistlin had discovered with angry amazement that he had come to depend on Caramon on several things, from carrying heavy objects to forcing open a jar of spell components. And these were only practical matters, of course. As annoying as they were, they were no match for his utter helplessness when it came to the matter of his nightmares.

With Caramon the nightmares never came, those dreams that for months now had been even worse and more regular than in his childhood years. Many times had Raistlin woken up sobbing, crying out his brother's name in the darkness, unable to understand why he did not respond. And the knowledge that struck him as he received full consciousness was devastating, unbearable almost: _Alone._ _I am Alone.  
_  
In those lonely nocturnal hours Raistlin would have given anything to feel his brother's strong arms surround his tormented body and hear his safe, steady heartbeat. His warmth would chase away the horrid images that plagued his dreams - the black, empty voids, where the only answer to his unending screams was the mocking laughter of everyone who had ever looked down upon him, led by the cackle of the ancient lich whom he now knew was partly responsible for his miserable physical state.

Raistlin returned to himself with a gasp. He could not tell how long it was that he had been standing there, searching for something - comfort? - from the cold window glass. He shivered as the first licks of fever he knew so well shot through his body. He pulled his sleeves down and quickly put on a cloak that was hanging over the chair. Rubbing his arms for warmth, he returned, rather reluctantly, to Caramon's words.

_You'd be suprised at how many of our old friends still live here - you know, the folks who knew us when we were children. The funny thing is that when they see me the first thing they always say is where's Raistlin. I always tell them you'll be here very, very soon. Will you?_

_Our old home is still here, too - yesterday I sort of happened to wander there. No one lives there at the moment, so I sat on the porch for some time, just like I used to do when I was waiting for you to come home from the magic school. I swear I could almost see you walking down the road in your white apprentice's robe, a pile of books under your arm. Remember how I would run to you and take those books from you and hug you, because it had been so long since we'd last seen each other? And how you'd say Caramon don't be a fool, I only left this morning? Oh boy, it always made me laugh._

With a trembling that seemed to pass from his heart to his hand, Raistlin squeezed his eyes shut, barely able to hold on to the letter. Yes, he remembered. Everything, deep down inside. The long summer days in Solace, in the place he once called home; the golden wheat fields and the wind in his brother's hair... Raistlin breathed deep a few times, ordering the tears to pass. There was no chance in the world he would cry over this sentimental rubbish and allow himself to be made weak by mundane emotions. No chance in the world.

When he opened his eyes some moments later, they were dry and hard.

_I returned home only after several hours. Tika was quite mad at me for disappearing like that on our birthday, and I couldn't quite explain it to her, but I felt like I needed to be alone. I didn't want anyone around. Well, anyone except you, Raist. And maybe Kit. She sure knew how to throw a good party. It would be just like the old days.  
_  
Birthday? Startled, Raistlin glanced at the date on top of the letter. So it was. Obviously he had succeeded in forgetting it, just like he had decided he would. It was a thing not worth wasting time on, nothing but dust in the wind. Should he deliberately memorize and cherish the day that marked his cripplement, that reminded him with a jeer that he was not an individual but a single part of two? The day that had tried to end his life before it had scarcely even begun? No, thank you.

On the next line Caramon jumped from one topic to another without any real transition. Raistlin got the feeling his brother had stopped writing and then returned to it after some time had passed. From here on out his handwriting weakened and became sloppy, - well, _sloppier_ -; a phenomenon that Raistlin with disdain connected to the pale reddish stains adorning the paper.

_Or if you don't want to come here, I could always come there to you, right? I told you I would come, didn't I, when the silly war was over and we all went our separate ways. Well, I haven't changed my mind since then, you needn't worry about that. I mean, I don't care if you really, really, really want to be a black robe. I understand, Raist. Maybe I was a little shocked at first, but that's alright now. You're still my twin, you know. You can do whatever you like, and I won't ever stop you. And I don't give a damn about what anyone thinks, Tanis or Sturm or anyone. Just say it and I'll be there. I'm sure Tika will understand.  
_  
Raistlin shook his head in disbelief and laughed dryly. Caramon certainly had a tremendos amount of faith in his wife's understanding. And still he was willing to sacrifice everything he believed in and turn to darker paths with him. He was willing to leave behind everything he held dear, from the love of his new wife to the respect of his many loyal friends. And why? Because he cared for his twin more than he cared for himself. Because his happiness depended on being able to please his twin. Raistlin knew it. He had always known it and yet he had never encouraged his brother to think otherwise. It was as it was. An irrational trick of fate performed by the gods at the moment of their conception.

And once again - Raistlin noted with a disdaining smirk - Caramon claimed to understand the one thing he would never understand: the magic. He thought destruction and evil could be spread only by sword, whereas magic, to him, was something light and amusing, a delightful little thing performed by harmless fellows at even more harmless road shows. Despite the shiny confidence Caramon showed in the letter, in truth he could not even begin to imagine the horrors he would have to face if he were to come to the Tower. His heart was simply too gentle for the dark wonders of the Black Arts. With warped satisfaction, Raistlin imagined opening the basement door and revealing to his twin's wide-eyed gaze the wretched, pitiful forms of life that were leading a tormented life in the darkness... _Hello and welcome, brother dear. Look what I have done!  
_  
But on the other hand... Raistlin stared at the flames of the fireplace in deep thought. Fire... Fiery death in his hands hadn't been enough to keep Caramon away and destroy his love for him; one couldn't kill fire with fire. Could he tell his brother to come? Could he really? The eerie death-like silence that shrouded him after nightmares would be gone for good. Caramon would comfort him after a bad dream and tell him everything was going to be all right; he would brew his tea with infinite patience and love him back to life when he fell ill...

For some moments Raistlin was stunned with anxiety, torn between the desire to have his twin beside him and his decision to walk alone for the rest of his life. _Listen to yourself_, he thought despisingly, _have you gone mad? You will do great things - on your own, without your dull brother. You don't need him. Besides, you won't last a single day in his company without losing it. _Raistlin frowned as he envisaged Caramon in the Tower, opening wrong doors, asking useless questions, rummaging through cupboards, pushing things over...

But then his irritation gave way to shame, and the blood rushed into his cheeks, as he suddenly remembered something he didn't much care to remember. The Palanthas marketplace. The tormenting, winding uphill road at the far end of which stood the magic shops in the hectic bosom of the great city. The walk was simply too much for him, and lately he'd had to send his nosy spy of an apprentice to run his errands - an arrangement he was not content with in the slightest. Of course, his brother was a different matter altogether. Unyieldingly loyal, painfully trustworthy, and on top of it all practically built for physical exercise.

Raistlin shuddered at the memory. He remembered walking forward in cold sweat, wheezing for air with the burning taste of blood in his mouth, trying to take in desperate, shuddering breaths of air as he pushed past the people who turned away but not fast enough for him to miss the unbearable pity in their eyes. Before entering the markets, he always had to sit down for a while in order to catch his breath, and it often happened that little children who did not know better stopped and stared openly at the weird-looking, ill wizard. One time, after a particularly bad night of constant blood coughs and nightmares, he'd swung his staff at one of them in rage.

Raistlin closed his eyes in anguish, which was soon subsided by certainty. He would never have to go through that horrible humiliation again - Caramon would make it better, he would make them stop. Everything would be so easy, so right; his foolish attempt at getting along alone would be forgotten. They would reconnect and be twins again. Like always. Everything would be alright, just like it was meant to be.

His heart pounding with new excitement, Raistlin carried on with the letter. But the more he read, the more his excitement started to wane, and his mood changed from joy to disappointment to ire. The rest of the letter was somewhat laborious to get through - Raistlin had to read the lines over a couple of times before he managed to form a coherent meaning out of them. The lines jumped erratically and whole letters seemed to be missing, all of it implying that Caramon had been either very tired or very drunk, in other words completely out of control of himself - something Raistlin did not tolerate for one moment in people. And seeing it came from his own brother, his _twin_, for gods' sake, made it personal in a way that maddened him.

_I wonder what you are doing up there in your tower. In all this time I haven't heard a thing from you. But I bet that's because it takes forever for messengers to deliver letters._

Raistlin rolled his eyes in digust. Typical! Once more Caramon had managed to come up with an innocent explanation that made things look better than they were and kept the truth from getting into his puny brain. Slow messengers - right. "You're pathetic, do you know that?" Raistlin whispered out loud and laughed.

_You're going to laugh now, but the first thing I do every morning is go to the post and ask if there's anything for me._

The stream of laughter died on Raistlin's lips. His face froze into despair. He saw it very clearly in his mind's eye: his twin going to the post aglow with excitement and hope, receiving a disheartening answer time after time. Did they look at him with pity in their eyes, pity that he was too stupid and lucky to notice? Did they make fun of him after he was gone?

The tears that had been lurching behind Raistlin's eyelids finally broke free. They dropped on the letter like hard splatters of rain - one, two, three tears - and blurred the ink of Caramon's handwriting. Hastily Raistlin started to wipe them off, but then decided it was no use. No matter. One tear more made no difference.

He saw the last line through misty haze.

_Raist, come home, please. I will be right here waiting for you._

_Your loving brother,  
Caramon_

He could not control the lonely, exhausted sob that escaped his lips. He brought his hand over his eyes and sat still for a long moment, ashamed of his weakness. He had been angry with his twin countless of times in his life, but this by far surpassed them all. After all the work he had done in forgetting... In a bottomless fit of frustration, he kicked the foot of the adjacent chair and sent it flying.

No, no reconnection. Not this time.

The love between them - it would turn into hatred. What little there was to save was savable only through total estrangement.

Raistlin took in a deep breath of air, held it and then breathed out again. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and stared into emptiness for a long time, immovable as a statue. One by one he turned his feelings into stone and bid farewell - once again - to memories and longing, to love that hindered. For the love was there, he could not deny it; it was etched forever in his heart. He could not get rid of the love, but he could always get rid of his heart.

But how should he break it to him? Raistlin formed ghost sentences in his mind, thinking of sending his brother a cold, short response whose meaning could not escape even the most inattentive observer. _No, Caramon. I won't move into the room you built for me. I won't love it. You can sit there all alone day after day and contemplate on the useless time you spent making it, for I will never be there._

As tempting as the thought was, Raistlin soon abandoned the idea. After all, responding would be the exact opposite of what he was after. Caramon didn't exist to him, he didn't exist to Caramon, they didn't exist to each other - that's the way it was going to be from now on.

The sun was finally down. As Raistlin watched its last rays melt into darkness, he came to the final conclusion. He folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. Pronouncing a few arcane words, he lit a tiny fire at the tip of his index finger and brought the flame under the unbroken seal. "I want you to know," he whispered as the fire slowly melted the wax, "that I'm doing this for your own good, brother."

When the wax was soft enough to catch, Raistlin pressed the seal down. The envelope looked as good as new. He took his quill and without emotion wrote on the backside the words he perfectly well knew were the culmination of his twin's fears: _I have no brother. I know no one named Caramon.  
_  
He signed under the lines.

Violent shivers of fever pierced his body in rapid succession. Wearily he let the quill drop. He felt empty and sick; he leaned his elbows on the table and buried his burning eyes on the heels of his palms. He sat motionless, a dark silhouette against the red rising moon. His tired voice was inaudible; only his lips moved as he silently pronounced the last words he was ever going to address to his brother in this world.

"Caramon, please forgive me."

THE END


End file.
